All The Right Shades On The Wrong Page
by PaperHeadPhones
Summary: Grell kills Madame Red, leaving her bloody and broken on the ground. He mused shortly about what has brought them up to that fateful night.  No pairing.


**All The Right Shades On The Wrong Page.**

xxxx

A/N: Inspired by the song "Colorful Mind" by Broken Iris. I got bored so I wrote this. Again, on my cell phone. Early, early in the morning. For some reason that's always when I get some sort of muse. I don't understand it myself, but hey. Three one-shots in two days. I kick _ass._

Also. I'm going to throw random shameless advertising into this authors note. If you like Sebastian/Ciel, read "The Body Shoppe" by robovacation. You will love it, fucking trust me. The woman behind it is a fucking genius.

Disclaimer: I own fuck all.

xxxx

His Death Scythe ripped through her chest effortlessly, her blood spraying out all around them as the supernatural blades sliced through her pitifully weak flesh. She dropped heavily to the ground, her cinematic records flying through the air around him. He watched her story with a lack of interest; already bored of this game.

"_You're not fit to wear red_." He spat as he ripped the slightly blood stained jacket from her already cooling corpse. Admittingly, the bloody scene excited him. He was always one who enjoyed a good murder story.

"Goodbye, _Madame_." He said simply, stolen jacket flung over his shoulder as he began to sashay away, his heels clicking quietly on the cobblestones.

He had no further interest in this play. The curtain, as far as he was concerned, had fallen on their pitifully short tragedy.

It was time to bow to the audience and take his leave.

He couldn't help but think of how things had gotten this way, regardless of his now pure distaste for the woman. She was nothing more than a mere human, after all.

Weak willed, always hesitant.

Oh, how it put his nerves on _edge_.

He had fancied her the female version that he unfortunately could not be, as much as he wished it to be so. He had been interested in her reason of revenge, a reason that he himself shared.

The inability to give birth.

Yes, he wished that he himself could bare children. He knew however that it was impossible, due to the small issue of his gender.

A lady can dream, right?

The red clad woman's story was a bit more tragic, really seemingly more like something that only occured in the novels he read: Fall in love with a man, that man marries your elder sister. They give birth to a beautiful boy. However you find yourself a man that understands that your heart belongs to another, but insures you that he loves you anyway. You finally become with child, only to have it and your husband ripped away from you in one swift ticking hand of the universal clock.

Yes, it really _was_ a tragedy.

Though it seemed as if perhaps he had underestimated her resolve. Admittingly, killing whores was one thing. Killing your own kin was ano-

_No_, he would have done it without hesitation.

The boy was in the way of their revenge after all. Even the woman had said as much the night before as she worked on a painting. The gentle sweeping of the brush on the canvas was a soothing sound in the silence of the large townhouse. He had sat by her while she spoke, still hidden in his absurd butler disguise.

Ah, the atrocity of that design. It was far too plain for him, and they had argued over it for hours. He claiming it wasn't fitting for a lady, she explaining that it would be the perfect cover.

Of course, he had ended up bowing out to her stubbornness. Even he could not compete with her on that level, and that was mildly entertaining in itself.

A challenge.

Yes, he liked a challenge.

He mused over what they would put on her corpse to hide the gaping hole in her chest. A dress, obviously, but what colour?

Knowing the churches, it would end up being a dreary white number. Elegant, but plain.

_Fits perfectly. _He chuckled mentally, shouldering his Death Scythe.

But no, he knew that someone would bring red into the funeral. After all, that was how she was known by the world. Her scarlet red appearance.

But nothing could be more beautiful than her bathed red in her own blood.

It was fitting, the perfect end to the script.

And he was just an actress, devoted to the arts.

Yes. He would never hesitate to force a story into creation. It was his passion, his duty, his job.

But all stories must come to an end, _non_?

xxxx

Read and Review.


End file.
